


Rune Academy

by HAL_berd



Category: Sdorica: Sunset (Video Game)
Genre: Fluff, Gen, Rune Academy, and other stuff, shot collection
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-07
Updated: 2019-04-26
Packaged: 2020-01-06 03:39:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18380201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HAL_berd/pseuds/HAL_berd
Summary: Little shots about the Headmaster of Rune Academy and his relationships past and present.





	1. Holidays

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elio hates holidays.

Rune Academy is a boarding school. Elio stays in the dorms like any other student; he has his own room with a small single and nightstand, a spacious desk, and a modest wardrobe adorned with silver mirror. In practice, he is no different from any other student.

Except it’s completely different. Most of the other students have elsewhere to go come weekends or holidays, but the Academy _is_ Elio’s home. It’s one of the many ways that his father has left him stranded in limbo, that strange purgatory between student and son, where Elio lives in his own room in his own home, but that room is a dingy student dorm. Some nights, when he lays on his impersonal single bed, he wishes he could tear those adoption papers into little feathery scraps right in front of Headmaster Charle and become the little disowned, parentless bastard student that he is in everything but name.

And other nights he dreams of terminating his student contract and having a father like he used to.

These two diametrically opposed sentiments only grow stronger as the holiday season draws near and students begin chatting about going home for the season or what gifts family would send or the merry celebrations of years past. In something of a tepid mood he drifts from class to class, mindful to circumvent both conversation with other students and the Headmaster that would wander the halls wishing happy holidays and handing out little sparkly charms as gifts to every student but Elio.

He gets cornered one day, and as the other students prattle on about their holiday plans, he sours rapidly.

“...Oh, Elio, what about you?” he is asked. “Are you and Headmaster Ceres doing anything over the holidays?”

_Probably not_ , he thinks bitterly. The Headmaster had skipped the holidays for the past few years. No reason for this year to be any different.

“I don’t know,” he replies mildly. “Classes might still be in session over the holiday season even though many students are out on break. The Headmaster will be busy.”

_And I’ll just be a student._

He gets several frowns.

“Wait, that’s so sad…”

“...unfortunate…”

“...hope you still…”

“...sorry…”

He walks away.

Elio considers heading to the library to study like he normally would, but lately the place has become more of a hotbed for holiday talk than a place of learning. Tired, he makes his way back to his dingy dorm room.

“Elio! _There_ you are!”

He doesn’t know whether his reaction is out of pleasant surprise or utter frustration, but either way, whatever is on his face gives the Headmaster pause.

“You look pale, Elio,” Headmaster Ceres says, concerned. “Is something the matter?”

Elio huffs. “Nothing, really,” he mutters. “Have you been...waiting here?” And perhaps he can’t help the hopeful lift to the end of his question.

The Headmaster beams.

“Yes, I have!” he says. “I haven’t seen you in the halls lately, so I thought since I had something personal to talk to you about, and calling you to my office for something like this would be highly unprofessional, catching you outside your dorm room seemed to be the best choice--”

“But I’m not normally here at this time of day,” Elio replies, bewildered. “I usually head to the library for a few hours. How long were you planning to wait? How long _have_ you been waiting here?”

The Headmaster’s smile turns sheepish. “Perhaps it would be best if you did not know.”

Part of Elio is incensed that his own father is unfamiliar with the schedule he’s adhered to for the past few _years_ as a student, and the other is touched that Charle had likely planned to wait here to speak with him for who knows how long. The latter just barely overpowers the first.

“...What did you want to speak about?” he asks cautiously.

Headmaster Ceres brightens once again. “Well, as you know, the holiday season is coming up.”

Like he could forget.

“And I know that for a long time, we haven’t done anything very...family-like over the holidays.”

Again, _like he could forget_.

“But this year, I haven’t much to do.”

_Of course he’s busy_ , Elio thinks bitterly.

“A great many of the students are heading out for the holidays to return home, more than usual. It’s gotten to the point that some of the professors have cancelled classes for the season, and that greatly reduces the amount of management on my end.”

_He makes these excuses every—_

And then Elio takes a second to properly process what had actually been said.

“And I realized it’s been a while since you’ve seen a proper holiday,” Headmaster Ceres says softly. “Hardly fair to any student, and especially cruel to my own son.”

Elio’s guarded stance begins to loosen in his momentary shock.

“So I was wondering,” Charle begins, “since the staff dorms are a bit more spacious, and I just had your old baby bed in my guest room replaced with something a bit more befitting of a boy of your age, whether you would like to spend the holidays together.”

Elio stares. This has to be some elaborate dream.

“...Really?” he asks quietly.

Charle raises an eyebrow. “Of course. We could get a tree for my room if we can fit it in between the shelves, and the Academy will be having a grand feast.” He grins. “I got you a gift as well.”

And here, Elio has to roll his eyes despite himself. The mild demeanor has to crack at some time.

“Keep the charm,” he says. “Give it to some other student.”

Charle chuckles. “Oh no, I don’t mean that. A _real_ gift.”

“A real...What is it?”

“Well, I have to keep it secret until the Big Day, don’t I?”

Elio blinks. This is...this is real, then. A real holiday, for the first time in years, with his _father_.

Charle, his _father_ , opens his arms. “So what do you think?”

The robes of the Academy Headmaster are adorned with far too many metal pieces to be a comfortable thing to squeeze, and something like that would be unseemly for a young man of Elio’s age in the public halls of the Academy dorms.

Elio hugs him hard.

* * *

 “We won’t be eating your cooking, will we?”

“There is nothing wrong with my cooking—”


	2. War Paint

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fatima figures out how her War Paint works, with the help of the Headmaster.

Fatima can feel the girl’s eyes on her like a brand.

“Girl, would you stop staring at my legs?” she snaps. Normally, she is unfazed by this kind of attention, but the  _ intent  _ in that brat’s gaze makes her indescribably uncomfortable.

At that, Tica snaps from her momentary distraction and returns to gathering rune flowers for another one of the Academy’s inane experiments, but that’s not really the end of it.

As the girl settles the basket against her shoulders, hunching from the weight, Fatima is once again inflicted with her lecherous gaze.

And then Tica’s hand lifts towards the side of Fatima’s leg—

The next second, the Academy brat is sprawled on the floor of the valley, her carefully gathered rune flowers scattered in the dirt, hand intact but an angry red from Fatima’s slap.

“ _ What is wrong with you? _ ” Fatima snarls.

Tica’s brow draws into a frustrated furrow.

“I just thought Ms. Fatima’s War Paint looked like rune patterns,” the girl huffs. “I wanted to see what they did.”

The panther growls. “So you had to  _ touch  _ me?”

The skew of the student’s lips has a distinctive “well, duh” look to it. “To activate the runes, I would have to infuse them with energy,” she explains. “So yes, I had to touch you.”

Fatima has half a mind to just leave her there and let her wander her own way back to the Rune Academy, but she made an agreement with Charle, and the anger is fading fast. So she simply turns her back on the girl.

“Pick up your flowers,” she mutters. “I’ll still escort you back to the Academy, but you keep your  _ eyes  _ off my  _ legs _ , twerp.”

“What about if I—”

“ _ No. _ ”

* * *

 

The incident almost passes from her memory completely, but then one day Fatima’s scheduled to have a discussion with that eccentric fool Charle about some upcoming event, so she heads to gates of the Academy with Tica to operate the portal for her, the girl’s eyes trained meticulously away from Fatima’s body.

She gets to the office only to find Charle eating with his son, that Feather Tribe boy Elio.

“Hello, Ms. Fatima,” the boy says, looking like he’d dodged a bullet. Elio’s plate has a cut of mutton and some fresh vegetables and fruits.

Charle’s plate, on the other hand, looks like death, and he has a bit of it stuck on a fork, extended as if to get his son to try some.

“Fatima!” Charle greets, lowering his bio weapon. “You’ve come early!”

Fatima frowns. “No, I’m on time,” she states flatly.

And Charle glances at some contraption at the corner of his desk and smacks his forehead with the palm of his hand. Fatima wonders once again how a man so frighteningly competent at times could be such an imbecile at others.

“Elio, I’m very sorry. Time just slipped by. Some other day?” Charle says forlornly.

And the boy seems very enthusiastic in his reply before rushing out the room, dragging Tica with him to flee the horror on Charle’s plate.

Fatima watches him go, and then she levels the man with her most unimpressed look.

“What happened to the whole ‘ignoring my own son at school’ thing?” she asks.

Completely missing her judgmental tone, Charle replies with utmost cheer, “Well, there are no classes today, so that places Elio outside of the ‘student’ category and firmly into ‘son.’” And the doting in his voice could not be more obvious even if lit by neon orange rune magic. 

“But he still won’t have my cooking,” Charle despairs.

Fatima raises an eyebrow at the...thing on his plate.

“Truly a mystery.”

With that, Charle sets the plate blessedly out of sight and stands, inviting Fatima to a side room with a massive oaken table covered end to end in parchment. Lining each side is a set of heavyset wooden chairs, with a more ornate seat at the head, for the Headmaster, presumably. 

With just a wave of Charle’s hand, the mess clears itself up.

“Here should be fine,” he says, pulling out one of the smaller chairs for her to sit in.

Fatima nearly starts growling, but instead of seating himself at the head of the table, Charle strolls around to the other side and takes a seat directly across from her.

Charle’s expression takes on a serene quality. “Won’t you sit?”

Fatima grumbles and eases herself into the chair. The back is wholly uncomfortable for her tail, but she supposes the Headmaster of the Rune Academy would not have stools in his boardroom.

“Have I ever told you that your new robes make you look old?” she asks.

Charle laughs.

“I  _ am  _ old,” he responds. “I think this is my sixtieth year.”

Fatima snorts. Yeah right.

“Anyways, what’s this about a ‘Scavenger Hunt?’” she begins.

Negotiations go on without a hitch, as per usual, but by the end of it, Fatima’s tail is cramped something terrible, and she is acutely aware of Charle’s gaze on her shoulder. He seems to be muttering to himself.

“Where are your eyes, Ceres?” she questions, disgruntled.

Unfazed, Charle gives her a calm smile.

“My apologies, Fatima. I was simply absorbed by your war paint,” he explains. “Tica mentioned it to me a few weeks back. Would you mind...discussing this facet of Panther Culture? It is fascinating.”

Fatima sighs and indulges the man. She outlines for him the history of the patterns, their origins in Ancient Panther rituals, the way the pigment is made, and she finds that Charle is as respectful a listener as ever, soaking up information like a blubberfrog soaks up spring water.

“The other panthers don’t seem to follow this tradition,” he says. “Why is that?”

“It’s believed to be an outdated tradition, even among the more conservative circles of the Panther Tribe,” she responds. “Only a few besides myself still observe this particular ritual. All I know is that the paint makes me feel stronger.”

Charle seems to sink deep into contemplation, brows furrowed and fist curled loosely in front of his mouth.

“Fatima, I believe Tica has mentioned to you before that your War Paint looks like rune patterns, correct?”

She considers. “Yes, I think so. She tried to touch me, the brat.”

Charle chuckles. “Well, yes. That is one of the best ways to activate a rune pattern.”

“So…?”

“Well, I would also like to...explore the concept. I have yet to see rune patterns of this fashion,” he proposes carefully.

Fatima frowns. “And you intend to touch me?”  
“Well no, not yet,” Charle says. “There is a very real possibility that activating this unknown rune pattern would have certain unexpected results. Explosions, for example. So what we do first is—”

He magicks out some fancy looking parchment and a quill.

“May I have a closer look?”

Fatima is hesitant. Charle is looking up at her, hopeful.

She can’t deny that she’s curious too.

Snarling, she turns to expose the runes on her arms and watches as Charle meticulously transcribes them onto parchment.

“I believe there is more, is there not?”

She would punch him if he didn’t look so damn clinical about this. At any rate, it would ease her aching tail to stand, so she does, and she allows him to copy down the patterns that trail down her sides and legs and the set that comes to a point at her navel.

“Thank you, Fatima,” Charle says, genuine. “I’m sorry if that was uncomfortable.”

Fatima snorts and sits down again. Ow. She has half a mind to demand a proper stool next time.

“Whatever,” she says. “Just get on with it.”

“Yes, yes. Well, the main purpose of this type of parchment is to test whether the rune has a combustible or otherwise explosive nature,” he explains. With a touch of his hand to the parchment, the pattern glows blue, and nothing happens. “Which, as we see here, it does not.”

Fatima raises an eyebrow. “So it’s safe?”

“Well, no, not yet,” Charle replies, chuckling. With another wave of his hand, he pulls out tens of other packets of parchment, each with different colors, shapes, and markings. “We also have to test for toxicity, imbalance, neural effects, muscular effects, molecular composition effects—”

“Yeah, yeah,” she says, exasperated. “Please just hurry.”

Charle grins. “Yes, ma’am.” 

In all, it takes a full hour, and by the end of the tests, Charle is grinning like a child, and Fatima’s tail is killing her, even with her periodic breaks of standing and pacing.

“Is it safe?” she asks again, annoyed.

“Yes, it’s safe, “ Charle responds, giddy. “And I believe you will like the effects  _ very  _ much.”

“What do they do?”

“Well,” he says, arranging his pile of test parchments. “They enhance the strength and agility of the wearer, it seems, based on the muscular alteration tests. I went ahead and tested the one below your eye as well, and that one seems to increase the creation of bodily chemicals that bolster focus.”

Huh. Fatima smiles. “So they  _ do  _ work.”

“Yes they do,” Charle says. “The ambient soul energy in the Valley must power them at a steady rate on a day to day basis. I can only imagine how much more effective they would be if properly infused—”

“Do it.”

Charle blinks. “What?”

“Give the runes more energy,” Fatima demands, standing up. “I want to see how it feels.”

“I—,” and here, the man looks almost flustered. A touch on the shoulder or arm for healing is one thing, but some of these runes trail through some pretty intimate places. But ever a man of science, Charle casts off his embarrassment. “Well, if you insist.”

He starts with the eyes, a simple tap that sends a tingle of energy jolting along Fatima’s cheeks, and the patterns, already blue in color, start to glow a brilliant azure, and suddenly, Fatima is hyper aware.

“Wow,” she says. She takes a few whiffs of the air and catches traces of Feather Tribe and Tica from the next room, even under the horrible stench of Charle’s lunch. Speaking of which, that horrible stench has suddenly become a million times worse.

“ _ Turn it off, turn it off _ —”

“Okay, okay.”

And the senseless torture lessens.

“Are you okay?” Charle asks, concerned.

Fatima shakes her head, trying to clear it of that traumatic experience. “No— I mean, yes,” she mumbles. “Do the big ones now.”

So Charle infuses the main patterns with energy, sending sparks running across Fatimas spine and limbs, sinking into her muscles. 

And then—

She is ready to pounce through the ceiling. Her arms feel like they will explode if not used, her legs jittery in their eagerness to dash with the wind. It’s wonderful, and terrifying, and she needs to do something, really, anything, as long as she does it  _ now _ —

_ Bang _ .

“...Was that really necessary?”

Fatima rubs her sore hands as the dust settles around the table, now split clear through its one foot thick center with that accursed, tail-cramping chair.

“Yes.”

* * *

 

“Get me a proper stool next time, Charle.”

“Yes, ma’am.”


	3. Fatherhood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At some point, he stops pretending the woman will return.

His first thought is that this child is much too fresh for Ms. Fournier to have walked here.

But here she is, bow-legged and limping, looking as if she'd just stemmed her bleeding hemorrhoids with her child's placenta. The exhaustion in her gait and posture belie the ferocity burning in her eyes, but her hands are feather soft on her baby. 

"I will definitely come back for him," she declares, tremulous in her certainty. "Please... I don't have anyone else to ask anymore."

And Charle's doubts waver. Clio Fournier had disappeared from their records in a suspiciously thorough manner that day years back. Morris had had conniptions over the wasted months of laboratory training, but Charle remembers there had been something genuinely melancholy about the man under all of his uninhibited rage. Morris had seemed to vest some modicum of faith in the woman. Charle had wondered if it had been warranted.

(He wonders now if he would be happy to see her back.)

(He wonders now if he could ever forgive him; maybe if he helps her it would be enough to make up for—)

(He wonders how strong a person must be to walk so far on a new mother's legs.)

But here she is.

Her own shock-white, lavender-tinted hair is matted and dirtied to an off-gray brown, and there is blood lacing patterns across her arms, perhaps some her own, no doubt much from others. Dust and rips mar the brilliant magenta silk of her dress, and her once-radiant skin has been dulled to a sweat-laced, mud-caked snarl.

But her baby is untouched.

The swaddle seems to shine in her dusty, trembling arms. He has her bright hair and pale skin, and in all the places where she is dirty, he is clean. Charle sees the way she looks at the child like he is the only thing animating her boneless body. Charle sees the way that when she looks at the child, her darkened visage begins to glow with a hallowed sort of hope. He sees the way she vigorously wipes her finger on what little patch of her clothes is not sullied, just so that when she trails it across her son's cheek to quiet his crying, his wrinkled skin will be left clean.

If anything, she can be trusted on this.

"I...I will look after him," Charle murmurs, and Ms. Fournier's relief is enough to nearly blow the both of them off their feet. "You really must rest. No person should be walking around conducting business in your state, Ms. Fournier."

She manages a bitter smile as she hands over her little babe.

"I would not leave him if it were not urgent, Professor."

Charle frowns. "Ms. Fournier, you are in critical health. Think about your son."

"I  _am_ thinking about my son," she hisses. 

He cannot keep her from her business. In the end, she turns and stumbles away, footsteps fluttering with each faltered step, until the beating gradually fades to nothing, and all that's left of her is the boy.

* * *

 In the blankets: a single, pure white feather, and a card marked simply,  _Elio_.

* * *

The next day, Charle carries the boy on his arm to his classes, and it becomes a topic of discussion.

"Professor! I didn't know you had a wife!"

"How come you didn't tell us about the baby, Professor?"

"Charle," huffs a colleague, "you gave us no notice! How were we supposed to throw a baby shower?"

Charle smiles as he bottle feeds the boy. He tries hard not to hold him too close, lest he accidentally imprint on him.

"He is not mine," he explains to them each time, sheepish. "I'll only have him for the day."

* * *

A day turns into a week, and Charle has stopped wearing his metal ornaments like professors are wont to do. Not after Elio had almost cut himself on one of them.

He sits, harried, as his students file out of his classroom, trying to keep the child entertained with little rune lights. Without the ornaments and proper pins, his robes droop around his shoulders and pool around his feet, and he notices that he turns heads more than usual nowadays, but the looks are of concern.

"Professor, you're not in it today," one of his grad students points out one day, after having narrowly prevented Charle from driving months of effort into spontaneous conflagration. "Get some sleep."

Charle rubs at his eyes, clutching Elio to his chest while the boy gurgles in confusion.

"My apologies," he murmurs. "I...My apologies. The boy...He hasn't settled into a proper sleep pattern yet. The nights are—"

His student pats him on the shoulder.

"We know, professor. Go rest."

As Charle trudges back to the staff dorms, the dread building in his gut that this child would grow up without parents...

He prays Ms. Fournier will come back.

* * *

"Professor Ceres, I have let the matter slip because I had been under the impression the arrangement was temporary," says the wizened headmaster over his wire rim spectacles, "but it has been two months now. Should the boy's mother not be back now?"

"His name is Elio," Charle answers idly as Elio grasps his finger with his whole hand, "and his mother will be back for him. She is no flake."

"Ceres, I have reports that the boy—"

"His name is Elio."

"—that Elio has severely impacted your capacity to teach and conduct your research," the headmaster continues. "The long sleepless nights and constant attentiveness...Have you considered taking a paternity leave?"

"But I am not his father," Charle replies robotically, as Elio takes his finger and begins suckling on it. "His mother will be back."

The headmaster frowns.

"Charle, I am forcing you to take a paid leave," the man commands. "Your research and classes will be taken care of. You are not fired; just accept a good thing and take care of you and the boy—"

"His name is Elio," Charle says, voice soft and drained, "and I am not his father."

He is banished to the staff dorms, and he cradles the boy near. He wonders where Ms. Fournier has gone, and whether or not she has found that nobleman who gave Elio his strand of glowing hair, and how long it will take her to convince that nobleman to raise their son like they should.

* * *

Ms. Fournier is an excuse.

Charle realizes this one day when Elio gurgles up at him and smiles so wide that it hurts his heart. For the most part, Elio is a well-behaved and quiet baby, but when he smiles with that kind of genuine mirth—

(—Charle ruffles the boy's golden hair and teases him mercilessly over that childish crush of his on the girl two desks over—)

—or yawns in that full-body way—

(—"You should get some sleep." "Sleep is for the weak, Ceres." "Falling asleep during a fundraising presentation is also for the weak, Dietrich." "Oh, shut up—")

—he gets the feeling that he doesn't want the boy to have to have him as a father.

Ms. Fournier will come back and take Elio to a comfortable life with two parents responsible enough to keep him alive.

("—Gotthold, look out—")

("—Get out of the way, you idiot—")

Ms. Fournier is an excuse.

* * *

Elio starts crawling at seven months, and Charle cannot help the pride that swells in his chest.

It's a shame the boy's mother is not here to see this. Charle sits down and draws, just roughly sketches out the moment, to show her how amazing her son is when she comes back.

* * *

Elio's sleep regulates at around eight months, and this is when Charle starts going to work again. His students are excited beyond belief to see him well, and even more excited to see the baby in his care still alive and kicking.

Charle keeps him on his arm still. The boy can crawl, but he can't have any students stepping on the precious thing.

* * *

"Ga...gagaga...ga!"

Charle rocks Elio back and forth as he babbles. He's read that this is natural, and soon he will begin calling for his parents.

"Ga...ga...gdah! Bah. Babababa...!"

He stiffens. Elio begins to giggle at his reaction and continues.

"Bababababababa!" the boy burbles cheerfully.

Charle sighs. The boy can learn words without associating anything with him perhaps...?

He tentatively resumes his rocking, cooing back at the boy, "No, not Papa."

He pokes Elio's nose, making the boy shriek with laughter. "You are 'Elio.'"

"Baba!"

"No~ 'Elio!'" Charle says, chuckling.

"Ba..ba...Babababha!"

Perhaps he should sketch this for Ms. Fournier too.

* * *

 Ms. Fournier will not come back.

More than twelve months have passed, and he holds Elio near him before settling him into his crib. Elio will be without parents.

This amazing little boy will be without parents.

He doesn't know why this is so devastating.

_The boy is not his son—_

When rubber hits his lips, he finally notices the wetness of his eyes and cheeks, and Elio, in his arms, trying to press his pacifier into Charle's mouth.

Charle freezes for a solid minute. He sees golden hair. He sees red eyes. He _cannot_ protect the people he loves, and this boy is not his—

Elio tries more forcefully to jam the rubber into Charle's mouth.

Ms. Fournier will not come back, Charle realizes tearfully.

This boy will be without a mother.

Charle wipes his eyes and puts the pacifier between his son's lips.

* * *

When Elio begins toddling, Charle cuts the boy's glowing strand of hair. He figures if the noble hasn't come to get the boy by now, there should be no point in keeping it.

So Elio toddles at his side as they walk down the hallway, Charle carefully guiding him by the hand, and the students point at the white hair and wonder if Professor Ceres was lying about the boy, because they can't not be related.  


End file.
